


To The Apocalypse In My Head

by ActualHurry



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Attack dog trope, Complicated Relationships, Hallucinations, M/M, Paranoia, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Shadowkeep, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualHurry/pseuds/ActualHurry
Summary: There's something on the horizon. Shin sticks his foot in the door that Drifter leaves open.(Takes place pre-Shadowkeep.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Long time no ShinDrifter. The bits and bobbles I’ve posted in the last couple months don’t really count; most of it has just been WIPs I’ve tidied up and figured should go somewhere to avoid waste. This is an actual new piece, an absolute unit at that, which has felt REALLY GREAT to do. REALLY, really great.
> 
> Further, if you haven’t already, PLEAAAASEEEE do yourself a favor and go read [albedo by beastofthesky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995040), to sate your undying need for complicated relationship Shadowkeep Era S/D, because seriously, this fic is INCREDIBLE and deserves more attention. Like really really really it's REALLY REALLY GOOD, I think about it every day.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy me breaking the rules of whatever the whispers are and why Shadows’ ears bleed. In all things, I do in the name of making Shin uncomfortable. It’s what he deserves.

There’s a strong, constant wind coming off the EDZ’s quietest coast, though there’s no clouds in sight. The bright sunlight dances off the water, complicating matters when Shin’s trying to get a clear view from where he sits up on the cliffs. He doesn’t mind the saltwater tinge to the breeze, as troublesome as it is for calculating bullet drop. There’s nothing of interest in his sight – yet. He frowns for the third time in the last hour, growing impatient. 

Conversationally and for lack of anything better to do, Shin muses aloud, “The whispers are getting closer.”

He swaps one scope for another on his rifle, looks through it, and decides on the first again when he spots movement. The sun is blinding. Only some kind of fool aims into the light like this, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

Over their secure line, his Ghost rattles off a little alert at him as if to prompt him to continue his thought, but says nothing in return. Shin peeks through the scope again and allows, “Maybe not. Maybe they’re just louder.”

Both options are bad news, far as the whispers go. The nightmares that wake him up every night like clockwork, too. No good. It’s not as if he can do something simple like escape to another system, either. This little problem’s going to stay stitched to him like his own shadow. It could run him to death, but he’s not much built for running anyway, unlike somebody he knows.

The thought makes him lighten his touch on the rifle’s trigger. He isn’t even supposed to be here in the first place, but he’s not _operating _out of Earth anymore, not turning anything (anyone) to ash. That way he’s keeping up his end of the bargain. No Man with the Golden Gun hunting phantoms in the night. So maybe that certain somebody won’t be against him dropping by. Maybe.

Or maybe, Shin thinks, he’s just being sentimental. He tightens his hold on his rifle once more and lays flat against the rocky ground. 

His Ghost appears at his shoulder, glancing off to the left. Shin adjusts his aim accordingly and spies the Hive Knight he’s been waiting for crawling up out of an entrance to the forgotten underground rail system. Shin gets the scope on the Knight’s head, feels out the breeze, gets ready to pull the trigger.

Would have fired, too, if not for the hint of not-there sound that passes just next to his ear. Shin twitches like it’s a physical presence and takes his shot a half-second late, imperfect. He swears under his breath as the Knight only stumbles, a chunk of chitin flying off its shoulder. Shin’s given away his purpose and his location in one fell swoop, and the dense shield that the knight throws up in front of itself is impossible to pierce with the ammo Shin’s using. One good Golden bullet would burn the Knight right up, and he almost opts for it, except… 

He’s shaken. The instinct to pull a different, infernal weapon from his holster tempts him. Shin doesn’t trust his hands for a second, and that makes all the difference.

Shin exhales and gets to his feet, and his Ghost disappears without a word. While he starts down towards the coast, he swaps the rifle for a shotgun he’d nicked from Drifter’s Gambit arms once upon a time.

Shin doesn’t give the Knight a chance to raise its blade against him as he nears; one shot shatters its thick armor, the next shot drops it to a knee. He fires twice at its head, and its final, terrible roar is impossible to separate from the marrow-deep, rending noise that echoes behind his skull.

The Knight tumbles into into something formless and broken, unrecognizable as a corpse and already decaying. Shin stares down at the remains, swinging his shotgun to his back again. Then he takes off his helmet and approaches the shallow water to wash the blood from his ears.

His Ghost scans the lifeless pieces for any anomalies and comes up blank. “What now?” it asks, blinking its eye at him slowly enough that Shin recognizes the concern.

He stays quiet for a moment, rinsing the blood off his hands, watching the red fade away into the waves. “Scan me,” he suggests.

His Ghost does. Shin keeps his eyes on the lazy tide as it comes and goes. It’s almost enough constant sound to drown out his thoughts, and for that he’s halfway grateful.

“Nothing,” Ghost says eventually, a touch of relief in its verdict. “If there’s something wrong, it’s not with you.” 

“That’s a good thing,” Shin murmurs, “and a bad thing.”

He lifts his eyes to the sky, narrowing them against the sun, then turns his head towards the moon, barely visible against the blue and bright. His Ghost follows his gaze, then looks back at Shin silently. For a moment, all the sound between them is the ocean. Shin listens closely enough to make sure.

“Call Shaxx,” Shin decides.

Each individual part of his Ghost relaxes. The line goes through without trouble, and then Shin’s off to the City wall.

The Crucible is a little bit of mechanical ability and a lot of mindgames – spend enough time in the running and you start bumping into the same people. The way Shin figures, it’s his job to make them tired of seeing him. He’s got miles of experience over most of these Guardians and a knack for keeping the lead, anyway. When he’s involved, no match lasts to time.

So Shin fights. He battles for Valor first, and when he gets tired of that, he competes for Glory. He razes the Crucible until fireteam invitations and sponsorships litter his alerts so badly that he has to dump them all. It’s a month long love affair that he spends sporting whatever guns and gear Banshee and Shaxx give him, swapping loadouts for a challenge, and never once pulling his Golden Gun on anyone. It’s almost refreshing.

He hears on the grapevine: _who’s the new Hunter in town? _

He hears Shaxx answer: _an old friend_.

He hears whispers too, and he smothers his ears with gunfire.

It’s halfway into a quick warmup match of Control, his team holding onto their early advantage with ease, when he notices something funny.

He laps the little patrol he’s running around the map a second time. Notices the same thing – a Warlock from the other team, sticking to his fringes, half-following and half-avoiding him. Shin recognizes his gear from Gambit and the helmet as an older model.

And when he puts his sidearm to the back of the guy’s head, he recognizes his voice, too.

“Hey, _hey_,” says Drifter, lifting both hands up – still holding that auto rifle of his, though. “Have some mercy on fresh meat, brother? Listen, there’s _much _scarier folk out there –” 

Shin almost lowers the gun. Almost. Drifter’s voice is just off enough that Shin was almost tempted to think twice, but if there’s anybody’s voice he’d know by now… 

He glances skyward to check for any of the Crucible drones televising their little interaction, then snaps his arm out to scruff the back of Drifter’s collar. Drifter yelps indignantly as Shin drags him to a little out-of-the-way corner, far enough from objectives that nobody should seek ‘em out even if there’s a flash of red on the radar. 

Shin tosses Drifter forward, letting him right his own balance.

“_You_, fresh meat?” Shin scoffs as Drifter whips around to face him.

He sees the tension ripple through Drifter like a shockwave. Shin can track the recognition all the way from his planted feet to his tight shoulders. If he wasn’t so run down, he would’ve laughed. As it is, Shin only waits, expectant.

_“Shin?”_ Drifter demands, making like he might just lift his auto rifle after all. 

Shin points his sidearm at him again; Drifter freezes. “You stalk people in Crucible matches often?” Shin asks, amused despite himself.

“It’s one of my favorite hobbies. Comes right after having a gun pointed at me in casual conversation.” Drifter’s dry edge is not wasted on Shin, but Shin only shifts his weight slightly in response. “What’re you doing here? Thought you ditched the system. Y’know. Like you were supposed to.”

Shin presses his tongue against his teeth ‘til it stings, then shrugs, tilting his gun a little as if to say,_ you know how it is_. “I’m having fun, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

Drifter briefly pulls up the scoreboard on his Ghost, then scoffs in disgust. “_You’re _having fun. Sappin’ that fun right outta my team. You got a vendetta or somethin’?” He pauses. “Quit your damn smilin’, I can feel you smiling.” 

Shin does not stop smiling. “And you’re here for…?” 

“Business, actually,” Drifter says pointedly. “You think I’d ever walk into this death trap otherwise? I’m on the prowl for _talent_. Gotta make sure I poach the good ones to stay on the up ‘n up. Talented Invaders are hard to find, and teams are gettin’ needy.” He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Hate it when they’re needy.”

“You’re recruiting?” 

Drifter does a little _eh _motion with his arm. “Think I prefer the term _networking. _Puts us all on more even ground, see?”

Shin finally lowers the sidearm as it clicks. “You wanted me for Prime.” 

Drifter looks him over, then seems to catch himself. “Didn’t know it was you,” he eventually says, like he doesn’t really want to admit it. Shin’s chest does something strange. “I sent a message first,” Drifter adds, quick, as if that makes him obsessively following Shin into the Crucible of all places any less weird.

“Huh,” Shin says. “Must’ve gone to spam.” 

“I hope you choke, Malphur.” 

Shin pulls up the score, ignoring Drifter’s rancor. Their match is coming to a close and heading there fast. He’s not quite sure he’s ready for this little rendezvous to end, not so soon. He thinks he just found a better pastime than the Crucible.

“That Invader spot still open?” he says, waving the display away.

Drifter sniffs out the bait quicker than Shin thought he would. “...Why?” he asks, suspicious.

“Well, was gonna say.” Shin checks his ammo count. “You want me, you’ll have to shoot me first.” 

Drifter twitches to raise his gun but Shin’s grinning, and even if he can’t see it, Drifter has to know – because he stops himself in an instant. “You think I’m an idiot or something?” he demands.

“I decline to answer,” Shin replies politely. “One thing I know for sure, though. I’m a sore loser.” 

After a missed beat, Drifter curses. “How many more points?”

Shin lifts his free hand and shows a single finger.

Drifter doesn’t even have his gun level with Shin’s head before Shin pulls the trigger.

The Derelict’s still as chilly as it was the last time Shin was here. The big, circular, gate-like machine that sits in the rickety ship’s bridge pulsates cold. Shin dares to walk closer, picking one thin icicle off of it, then examining that. Normal. He looks back at the machine. Not normal. If he listens closely, there’s a light buzz of energy coming off of it, a magnetic little feeling that invites him closer. Shin wants to take it apart, figure it out.

His Ghost lights up their private channel with an offer. “_I can scan it._” 

Before he makes a decision, Drifter’s footsteps catch his attention. Shin turns halfway to look over his shoulder at him; from the grimace on Drifter’s face, he doesn’t seem too happy that Shin’s trying to make sense of his newest project...whatever it is.

“Should I ask?” Shin says.

“No,” Drifter replies immediately. He glances at the machine and back at Shin, a nervous twitch to it, then beckons with a jerk of his head. “C’mon. Let’s chat.” 

Shin follows him, casting a final look back at that machine – a portal, maybe, except that it doesn’t look like a Gambit Bank. The snow crunches under his boots. He’s got the layout of the Derelict stuck in his head like a map, all thanks to familiarity. He’s resigned to the nostalgic wistfulness that accompanies it, just as he’s resigned to knowing himself well enough to go ahead and transmat his helmet off halfway to Drifter’s little room. 

“I gotta ask,” Drifter says over his shoulder at him, doing a brief double take when he sees Shin’s face. He doesn’t look back again. “You really interested in this Invader position? Or this another step in one of your shitty plans?” 

Drifter knows him too well. Shin almost doesn’t mind. “Little of column a, little of column b.”

Shin hears him grumble as they duck past those long, looming plants and reach the relatively warmer icebox of a room. “Wanna enlighten the audience?” Drifter asks him, fingers flexing into his palms. 

To Shin’s credit, he doesn’t immediately say no. But he hesitates long enough that Drifter snorts and mutters, “Figures.” 

Shin sits on the edge of Drifter’s cot. Drifter sits in the chair at his worktable. They face each other, take each other in. It’s the closest they’ve been in a while, and certainly Shin is the most vulnerable one of them. Drifter seems to recognize it at the same time Shin does, because there’s a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. Shin rests his elbows against his knees and lets him look his fill. 

“You look…rough,” Drifter finally says, almost like a question. “Just come off a bender or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’.” 

Drifter’s brows knit together and his nose wrinkles up in a moment of honest irritation. “Drop the enigmatics, Malphur. Trust me, I don’t wanna know what’s boiling over in your head.” 

_And isn’t that a relief_, Shin thinks, absently reaching up to scratch behind his ear as Drifter goes on, “I only gotta know whether or not you’re gonna go wacky and cook my best players.” 

Shin blinks. “I don’t do that anymore.” 

“_Don’t_ you.” 

They stare at each other for a long moment. It’s the Crucible all over again, except Drifter has the metaphorical gun pointed at Shin this time. 

Shin relents first, finally confessing, “I need a distraction.”

“Retirement doesn’t sit well with the Man with the Golden Gun? Color me surprised,” Drifter drawls. “No shit, nobody plays that much Crucible day-in, day-out unless they got bigger problems. Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“O-_kay_.” Drifter pinches the middle of his forehead with his fingers, then huffs out a long breath. “You make me regret this, I really will put that hit out on you.” 

Shin smiles, leaning back again, hands behind him on the bed. “You won’t regret it. Neither will the team you put me on.”

Drifter’s eyes flick down reflexively to take Shin in, what sorta picture he makes with his knees apart and his open posture. Then he swings his eyes to the ceiling, just as quick. “Yeah, about that…So, I don’t really got a _team _lined up for you. Actually, was thinkin’ I needed somebody who could, ah, tip the balance just a tad. A mite.” 

And Shin gets it, because he’d helped Drifter figure out the best ways to maximize motes, used to talk game strategy and sense with him for hours and hours, in the arenas and while laying in bed, sweaty and satisfied. Back when things were simpler. Drifter’s sitting there watching him, waiting, and maybe there’s a touch of those same memories in the weight of his gaze, too. 

Shin shifts his legs a little wider. A muscle twitches in Drifter’s jaw.

“You need somebody to rig matches for you?” Shin prompts.

“When you put it like that, makes me sound dishonest,” Drifter says dryly. Shin opens his mouth; Drifter points at him. “Pot, kettle.” 

Shin raises his hands placatingly. “I’ll do it.”

Drifter’s brows shoot upwards before he manages to school his expression into something less obvious, dropping the accusatory pose. “No bullshit?” 

“Like I said. I need a distraction.” 

Now, Drifter seems to catch the real need for it, that burning seriousness behind the words. He looks him over head to toe, really, _really _looks, ‘til Shin feels scrutinized and peeled apart and taken to pieces, and whatever Drifter sees, he hopes it doesn’t look like marrow or blood.

Drifter, either satisfied enough with the gamble or keeping his concerns to himself, says, “Yeah, okay. Let me get you some gear.”

Said gear is completely specced out. Mods, aura, all of it. The red snake slithering up the cloth and leather glows, lighting up Drifter’s face from below as he puts some finishing touches on it. Shin stares a little too long at his profile, long enough that Drifter catches him. 

Drifter hesitates a second before handing over the armor, but then he dumps it all into Shin’s arms, telling him to get it in his inventory for when he calls him. “And don’t kill ‘em dead,” he says. “Just kill ‘em.” 

“Right. Like earlier, in the Crucible?” 

Drifter sucks air between his teeth and gives him a glare, then goes back to his worktable to tidy up.

It feels strange to still be standing here with an obvious dismissal hanging in the air. Shin can’t remember the last time he just got what he needed and left. There was always something that made him stick around a while longer, for a night or for a morning or even only for an hour. Maybe this isn’t going to work. He knows what he wants well enough to know that he wants it to work.

Drifter catches him a second time. Shin’s face flashes with heat.

“You’ll call,” Shin says, like he’s confirming it, and not like he’s just – 

“Yeah,” Drifter says.

And that’s that. 

The rules are easy: don’t let anyone know that he’s Shin Malphur, whatever team he’s on has to win, and don’t give away the game. The game being rigged, of course.

(“Nobody’s supposed to know you’re the reason they’re gettin’ wins,” Drifter told him as Shin stood there and allowed him to fiddle with the armor one last time. Something about adding a little more punch to it.

“Thought this was your way of making good on deals,” Shin said. Drifter’s hands had him by the ribs, by the waist, pulling on straps and fixing imperfections Shin hadn’t even noticed. He couldn’t see him, not when Drifter was standing behind him, and something about that was… 

“Sure,” Drifter went on. “But maybe they win ‘cuz the motes are worth extra. Maybe they win ‘cuz I give your blockers a little more _oomph_. Who’s to say?”

“Not me.”

Drifter tugged hard on his belt. Shin wasn’t ready for it; he nearly stumbled backwards into him.

“No,” Drifter said, too close to the back of his neck if not for the hood of his cloak. “Not you.”)

Now he stands in the Derelict, waiting, watching. Shin spends the brief time examining each of the enemy players. Two Warlocks (Reaper, Sentry), a Hunter (Collector), a Titan (Invader). All decked out to the nines. But, he thinks as Drifter walks from side to side on his little platform, so is he – and Shin intends on putting on a show.

“You ever get the feelin’ something’s watching you?” Drifter says, flipping a coin between his fingers, looking at none of them in particular. “Yeah, well. Out there, outside the Vanguard’s pretty little line in the sand? Somethin’ probably is.”

Shin tugs the hood of his cloak up over his helmet, tracking Drifter’s pacing, back and forth, back and forth, ‘til he throws up his hands and announces, “Get out there and show ‘em what for!”

Just as they disappear, Shin can feel Drifter’s gaze on him as heavy as something pinning him down.

When the transmat glare fades from his eyes, he doesn’t recognize his surroundings. It’s some spot on Titan, sure, he knows that much, but he didn’t help Drifter with this one. Not as the Renegade, not as Shin. Something about that burns. 

Still. Drifter gave him maps of every arena, and Shin’s got ‘em all saved to his Ghost, who pulls up the layout on his HUD for him. He picks the places he’ll wanna stick to when he’s not leaping through that portal to ruin the red team’s day and tells his Ghost to mark ‘em. In the distance, his team’s already popping heads, distant screeches and gurgling sounding off between the echo of gunshots and boom of grenades – 

Hive. They’re fighting Hive. 

Shin tastes the blood before he hears the whispered rot. 

He shifts gears; he does what the Invader’s not supposed to do and he camps the portal. He’s got a pulse and a sniper, both gifts from Drifter, both snappy to aim and loud to shoot. From here, he can set his sights on the point where most of the Hive are spilling out. There’s blockers coming for him – he’s gotta make it quick – so Shin ducks around to avoid them, trying to get a bead on some of the faraway threats. He raises the pulse to his shoulder and pinches the trigger, a three-burst of a hail mary. The Wizard going for his Collector recoils at the shots, whipping around to look in Shin’s direction; the second its shield bursts, his Reaper guns it down.

_Not bad_, Shin thinks, and dives away from the blockers.

(Drifter handed him a hand cannon first. Shin gave it back just as quick.

“You kiddin’ me?” Drifter demanded, unimpressed.

“Give me something long range. I want to keep my distance.”

Drifter gave him a dubious look, but let the hand cannon disappear in a shimmering transmat, replacing it with a sniper. “Here, princess. This enough distance for you?”

Shin took the rifle, weighing it. He ran his thumb over the detailing on the barrel, examined the grip and scope. “Good craftsmanship.”

“‘Course it is,” Drifter scoffed. “Got a bow too, but somethin’ tells me you want the rifle more.” 

Shin glanced at him without tilting his head up from the gun, glad for the helmet covering his face. “You think?”

Drifter blinked and puffed out a sharp breath, cutting a hand through the air dismissively as he leaned against his worktable. “I _know_,” he said, like it was something unfortunate.)

Shin swaps to the sniper as the other team reaches enough motes for an invade. His team’s running back, but with the blockers on the bank and not enough time to get through ‘em before – 

The alarm sounds, the field washes dark. “Invader on the field!” Drifter calls, and Shin realizes it’s the first time he’s heard him all game. 

His team’s throwing him glances like he’s the reason they didn’t get enough motes fast enough, but Shin’s busy climbing to higher ground, mantling up the edge of a platform. Drifter’s maps don’t just tell him the arena’s layout, apparently; there’s a red dot overlaid on the top of it, traveling from the north towards the center. Half of Shin wants to say thanks; the other half wants to turn it off to even the odds just a _little _bit. 

He flicks on his team’s comms channel. “Stay mid,” he says.

“You’re nuts,” the Collector spits, wily and quick, and she sprints underneath his platform to get around cover. His other two teammates finish cleaning up the blockers, then tear off after her.

The Invader rounds the corner with a shotgun and a shoulder charge, Arc energy flashing out from his fists. Shin shoots him in the head and watches him drop. The Invader’s Ghost gives him a funny look as it floats there over his corpse, but Shin’s already reloading, paying it no mind.

“You’re _nuts_,” the Collector says again, with a distinctly different tone.

He jumps off the platform just as they all bank. The portal flares to life, dark and swirling, and Shin doesn't hesitate for a second to leap through the center of it. 

He lands on the other side, as disoriented as he is completely and totally balanced. It's a shift in pressure and it's swallowing something too thick to go down. It's the coldest Shin's ever felt, and whatever pumps through his veins feels hungry. Starving. Something sharp bites at his heels.

But it's quiet.

Even with the other team’s fighting and the resulting Hive shrieks in the background, it's quiet. Shin seeks the whispers out and comes up empty.

He’s standing there, basking in it, when his private comms finally come alive.

“_Go_,” Drifter urges in his ear, just for him, and Shin goes.

(“You’re really all in for this,” Drifter asked for the third time.

“I’m not gonna quit on you,” Shin said, glancing at Drifter while he laced up his boots.

“Sure.” 

Shin finished gearing up before bothering to look at Drifter again. And when Drifter didn’t look his way in return, Shin stood up, rolling out his shoulders, flexing his fingers in his new gloves. Everything fit just right. Everything felt good. The gear smelled like Drifter sometimes did. Leather and cloth. Oil, iron. No sweat, though, not yet.

Shin stepped a little closer, then dared a little nearer still. Drifter only gave a sign he’d noticed him when Shin was shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and even then it was nothing more than narrowed eyes and a stilted posture. 

“If you’re so worried, I’m sure you can find a way to keep me around,” Shin murmured, low.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Drifter lick his lips. “Nah. Nah,” Drifter said, then shook his head violently. “No. This time, I think you want it bad enough to keep yourself here.” 

Shin supposed it wasn’t the first time he’d showed his hand too soon.)

The other Invader’s on his way out from spawn. Shin kills him again before he makes it even three steps out of the grave. He chooses to play the phantom afterwards, taking a shot and moving on, and the very same moment they've adjusted to his position, he changes. It's a mean tactic, and it’s ruthless, and he knows exactly how to do it well.

“One more,” Drifter whispers, like he’s hanging onto every pull of the trigger. Shin keeps count of the seconds in his head as he takes off running for the sole survivor. 

Twenty-seven, and it’s one of the Warlocks, and they find each other at the same time. Twenty-eight – the Warlock leaps over one of the shipping crates, her arm wound back and shining violet. Twenty-nine, Shin’s boots sliding as he catches himself, snapping the rifle up to his shoulder just in time to fire off the last bullet right as the Warlock throws her Nova – 

30, and Shin’s thrown back to his own side with a strange, disconnected kind of whiplash, fingers still tingling from the recoil of the shot.

“Have some mercy,” Drifter calls out excitedly, this time on the public line. 

And that wild grin in his voice is nothing new; Shin’s heard it a hundred times directed at other players, other Gambit matches – but when it’s pointed at him like a weapon, well…he’s not averse to chasing it. 

His Collector gives him a thumbs up before taking off to do her job. Shin shakes his brief weakness out of his head – it’s clear, it’s quiet – and at the blissful cacophony of firearms and Light and nothing more, throws himself back into the fray.

The match doesn’t last much longer after that, and Shin doesn’t hear a damn thing more throughout it, save for Drifter’s cawing and crooning. 

Things improve.

There’s a second and third game that Shin runs interference in, then three more after that. Drifter stops babysitting, starts cackling when Shin makes a play, starts cheering him on while commentating like Shin’s his new favorite pet. And maybe he is. He cuts through everything like the sharpest knife there is. He’s told to get something done, and he gets it done. Unlike the Crucible, he never gets any unread alerts begging him to take a sponsorship. Drifter chases all that off and lets him run wild.

It’s a good feeling. It’s cathartic. It doesn’t last long enough.

The whispers only fade when Shin’s invading. Any other time, he’s fighting back the noise. Invading’s a sweet relief, but it’s no cure, and Shin doesn’t know how much longer he can take it when nine times out of ten he’s hearing words that don’t exist in languages that died a long time ago from creatures that aren’t real. 

Not real here, anyway. Real somewhere. But not here.

He finishes up the last match of the day. While Drifter sends off the players with their prizes, consolation or otherwise, Shin transmats back to the Derelict. He strips down most of the armor – cloak sent to his inventory, vest draped over the railing of the catwalk. His breath comes out in a visible sigh, and he watches it fade into the cold air like a shadow. 

And then icy nails dig into his skull and grip tight.

Shin’s Ghost flits out sooner than he can call out to it. It says, “Shin” – or maybe Shin’s wrong and it says nothing at all. He can’t hear past the echoing recitations. Meaningless, or should be. It’s when they start making sense that he starts worrying. 

The noise is garbled and _loud_, and unreal and unmaking, and all at once the rumbling groan in his ears shatters into a cacophony of chattering, cackling bone. Shin slaps his palm over his ear. It comes up clean.

The whispers aren’t what puts him on the floor; he drags himself down, and for a moment he forgets where he is and all he can do is _hope _he’s not doing something irreparable by giving in. He drops to his hands and knees. He hisses his breaths between clenched teeth as he plants his forehead on the cool floor.

Because the whispers aren’t words, aren’t commands, but hauntings and fears and wrongs. Guilts and shadows, already creeping there in his head, waiting to be gifted a voice. Shin left the Hive bones behind; yet still they feed. Still, they vibrate, matching the frequency of Shin’s trembling.

Shin doesn’t know how long he stays like that. He knows his Ghost doesn’t leave him. He knows when Drifter gets back, only thanks to the sound of slow footsteps (footsteps that pause at first, for so long that Shin’s not sure he didn’t imagine them) and the little shiver of the metal grates making up the floor. He knows he’s very, very tired.

Shin turns his head to see Drifter’s boots, then further to look up at his face. From down here, Drifter’s cloaked in so much shadow that Shin can’t even see what his expression might be. Shin’s not sure how much of that darkness is real and how much his eyes might be making up.

“Hey,” Shin grits out. Carefully, he pushes himself mostly off the floor, his eyes shut as the nausea returns.

“‘Hey’?” Drifter repeats, dumbfounded. “I find you lookin’ like – like _this _– and all you gotta say is ‘hey’?”

Shin grinds his teeth together, on his hands and knees, and doesn’t say anything else.

“You got a lotta nerve, Shin Malphur,” Drifter says flatly, angrily, but it doesn’t quite hide the shake at the end.

Shin coughs up a laugh, forcing himself all the way onto his feet again. “I think nerve’s all I got anymore.”

Drifter watches him the whole time Shin rights himself. Never once offers a hand. Never once moves. Just watches, one hand on Malfeasance. Shin’s almost flattered that even like this, Drifter feels threatened.

“The hell’s going on with you?” Drifter demands.

Shin shakes his head.

Drifter bristles, stepping back from him. “The cryptic shit isn’t gonna cut it this time –” 

Shin notices too late that Drifter’s eyes have slipped a little lower, a little closer to his neck. Oh. There’s the warm tickle down his skin, the sticky trickle from his ear. “Drifter,” Shin says, quiet.

“_What_?”

Shin rubs the blood off his neck. “I told you I needed a distraction.”

There’s silence, silence where all Shin can do is bite down on the hushed slithering in his head, then – 

Drifter bursts into hysterics, a spiel of cackles that end in a gasping, “So you brought your problems to _me? _You wanted _me _to handle this with you, like – like what, like a –” He throws his hands in the air, points an angry finger towards Shin, flings his arms back to his side and snarls, “_Fuck_ you.”

The whispers consume the venom like they’re starving for it. Shin scrubs at his neck a little harder. “Drifter –”

“Get out.” 

The whispers rejoice, hissing, chanting, cackling.

“Get _out_,” Drifter repeats.

He draws Malfeasance altogether this time. Shin’s not flattered anymore. Whatever response he thought he had is gone, no last words now. Just a buzzing in the back of his skull, noisy, frantic, his pulse like uneven laughter.

Shin turns around.

And everything snaps to black.

Shin wakes up with one of the worst headaches he’s ever had. There’s thin sheets tossed over him – Drifter’s crappy sheets, he realizes, in Drifter’s crappy room. The light by the worktable is blinding for the pain between Shin’s eyes. Drifter’s sitting there, tinkering away with something by the sound of it.

Shin’s quiet about how he moves, not ready to give himself away. Subtlety doesn’t count for much when somebody as paranoid as Drifter’s only five feet away though, and he doesn’t get his hand even halfway to his head before Drifter’s turning around, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“Huh,” Drifter says, and that’s all. 

Shin blinks at him. When Drifter doesn’t make any move to stop him, he tests the bump he feels on his scalp, flinching at even the gentlest touch.

“Did you pistol whip me?” Shin says, shocked.

“How’s the head?” Drifter asks.

“Hurts.” 

“Good.” 

The vindictive edge means that Drifter did, in fact, pistol whip him. Shin pokes experimentally at his ear. Dried blood flakes off, but nothing fresh.

“Ears ain’t bleedin’ anymore, are they?” Drifter adds, eyeing him.

“...No.” 

“Mhm.” 

They regard each other in silence for a long moment, ‘til Drifter says conversationally, “I thought your Ghost was gonna kill me.”

“I’m surprised it didn’t.” 

“It’s kinda a weird li’l bug, ain’t it?” Drifter goes on, swinging his legs around to stand up out of his seat. He leans one way and then the other, like trying to loosen up his joints. “Real protective. Think mine’d sooner dissect my corpse than save my hide. Can’t trust ‘em far as you can throw ‘em, and believe you me –” he chuckles. “You can throw ‘em pretty far.”

Shin…has no idea what to say to that. He sits up, much to his own regret, and then winces when he touches his brow. He glares at Drifter, who shrugs.

“You dropped like a rock, I couldn’t catch you,” Drifter explains. “Head just went..._thunk_, right there on the floor. But, uh. Turned out okay, right?” He scratches at his own ear, like he’s self-conscious of it now. “Whatever, keep bein’ ungrateful. See if I ever do anything nice for you again.” 

Drifter’s a lot chattier now that he’s gotten the chance to smack him back into sanity. That, or he’s nervous. Could be both, Shin reasons, though from where he’s sitting it feels a little like things aren’t so tense between them. 

Shin tests the waters. Shoves the sheets off of his legs a little and cringes again when he turns his head too fast. “You still want me out?” he asks. 

Drifter pauses a beat too long. “Yeah.” Another pause. “Yeah, but you’re a little too valuable to be throwin’ out like that. Much as I hate to say it.”

Shin bites back a smile. “Broken goods and all?” 

“Turns out the world’s got a shitty return policy,” Drifter says. Shin catches him stepping a little closer to the bed. Drifter notices that he notices and stalls out.

“No, no,” Shin says. “Come here.” 

Drifter narrows his eyes at him. “...Dunno about that.” 

“Never had an issue with it before,” Shin points out, which is the wrong thing to say – Drifter’s expression draws the shutters in an instant.

“Yeah, then I got smart,” Drifter fires back. Then, even more sharply, rushed: “And somethin’ happened to you. I dunno what. I don’t wanna know.”

Shin doesn’t know where to begin telling him that nothing happened, that he’s always been like this, that it comes and goes like the tide. Everything goes back to Luna someway, somehow. “I’m not asking you to know,” he says, then shifts how he’s sitting so he can reach out slowly, curling his fingers into the belt around Drifter’s waist. “I’m asking you not to think about it.” 

Shin watches Drifter’s throat work to swallow. “That’s a big ask.”

“Yeah.” Shin pulls, and Drifter moves with it, drags his heels against the floor as he takes a step. “When have I ever asked anything simple of you?” 

Drifter huffs out a startled breath. “Not one damn time,” he says. He takes the next step of his own volition, knees touching the cot now. 

Shin ignores the ringing in his ears as he tilts his head up to look at Drifter. He tightens his grip on Drifter’s belt; the man’s a flight risk, and if he’s gonna run then Shin at least wants the ache of a farewell. 

“Gonna puke if you get jostled around?” Drifter asks suddenly.

Shin’s laugh is an unexpected one, soft and under his breath. “No. I’m fine.” 

He stills entirely when Drifter’s hand bridges the gap remaining between them, his palm resting heavy between Shin’s neck and shoulder, thumb scratching curiously at Shin’s skin to pick off more dried blood. Shin shuts his eyes and lets him, fingers flexing on Drifter’s belt.

“You’re runnin’ hot,” Drifter murmurs. He rests his thumb on Shin’s pulse point, likely feels his heart flutter.

Shin opens his eyes to peer up at him again, content to stay silent on the matter.

Suddenly, he notices Drifter left Malfeasance back on his workspace. Not in his belt. Not on his person.

Shin yanks him into the cot.

Drifter catches himself on his hands and knees as Shin pulls him on top of him, as Shin pushes layers of clothing and those damn pauldrons off of his shoulders. Drifter breaks into his space and kisses him first, hungry-like, wanting-like, and it takes Shin so off-guard that Drifter’s able to grab both of his wrists and put ‘em against the bed.

“Easy,” Drifter says. “Easy.” 

There’s still an edge of trepidation there. Shin goes lax under him, but not without nudging his knee against Drifter’s side.

“Whatever you need,” Shin tells him.

Drifter’s mouth crooks funny at that, but he lets Shin go to pull off Shin’s undershirt, eyes flicking over his bare skin like he’s making sure he’s still all human under there. Shin stretches out enticingly, delighting in the way Drifter’s gaze darkens. Some things don’t change.

It lights the needed fire, too. They fall into each other like a bad habit, stripping each other down with practiced motions. Shin hasn’t forgotten the quickest way to undo Drifter’s belt and Drifter hasn’t forgotten where to drag his teeth to make Shin shiver. Drifter tugs off his pants and Shin raises his hips to help, then hears the clatter of Drifter’s boots as they follow his clothes to the floor. Drifter's full weight settles over him, and no, this bed’s still not big enough for two but right now, _right now_, it’ll do fine.

When Shin gets a leg hooked around Drifter’s waist, dragging him down to meet him in quick, friction-hot motion, he hears the first whisper.

And for a moment there’s nothing more than half-spun tendrils of bone crawling through his head, hisses of words he can’t make out and writhing laughter to go with it, like being haunted by something unknowable in his peripheral. The paranoia hits right between his ears and Shin nearly puts his hands over each side of his head from the feeling alone, but – 

He keeps his hands on Drifter’s body instead, digs thumbs into his hips just to focus on his sharp exhale instead of what haunts his head, tucks his face against Drifter’s neck and doubles his efforts. Shin rolls them over – a feat in and of itself on this damned cot – and settles in on Drifter’s lap, one hand out to brace against the wall. 

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Drifter takes Shin’s waist to keep him balanced. Even with kiss-red lips and flushed skin and panting that fast, Drifter looks too closely at him. “Move too quick?” he asks, a little skepticism laced between the words, and… 

There’s no chance that’s all he thinks it is, but he’s giving Shin an out, and Shin takes it. “You don’t pull your punches,” Shin manages, reaching higher to find the shelf – and the little bottle of lube that’s still on it.

The whispers devour his intent. Desperation is desperation, no matter the why or what of it. Shin's going to drown it out if it ruins him.

It's all heat as Shin pops open the lube and slicks up Drifter up, stroking him with little mercy to spare. Drifter's more than interested already, but Shin gets him dripping, working him until Drifter's trying to chase the loose grip of his fist, trying to follow the twist of his wrist. Shin slams Drifter's hand back down to the bed when Drifter tries to muffle himself on his own knuckles, and Drifter makes a noise in the back of his throat at him, halfway to wanting and further to frustrated.

“You're an asshole,” Drifter wheezes as Shin thumbs at the head of his cock, bringing more precum down to spread along with the lube.

“Oh, yeah?” Shin smiles down at him. “Should sweet talk me more often.”

“Shin Malphur’s a one trick pony _bastard_,” Drifter breathes while Shin teases him with slower strokes. 

Drifter doesn't know his voice alone chases the dark out of his ears, but Shin sure does.

Shin doesn't leave him wanting much longer; he's weak, and he's selfish, and he's been thinking of this for far too long to put it off any more. Shin slicks up his fingers next and slides those into himself, two at first for eagerness and a third – Drifter's, reaching between his legs to help – for hubris. Shin just about chokes as Drifter moves his finger inside of him, and all he can do is follow those motions along with him. Every so often, he gives his hips a little roll against Drifter's, reminding him that this is only the start.

(Like they don't both know that.)

“Oh, fuck,” Shin pants, pulling his hand free and wiping the excess lube on the useless sheets. “Come _on_.”

Drifter doesn't need to be told twice, though he gives Shin's ass a hearty slap as he leans back. Shin kisses him in retribution, biting Drifter's lip enough that he can swallow down the noise Drifter gives him in turn. 

Shin's ears buzz. He prefers the sounds Drifter makes.

He sinks down on Drifter a little too quick; it snatches all the air out of his lungs and shocks a gasp out of him. Drifter digs fingers into Shin's thighs and heels into the bed, biting his lip with squeezed-shut eyes, and even while dealing with the adjustment, Shin commits the scene to memory. He runs his hands up Drifter's abdomen, rests his palms against Drifter's chest, presses down as he shifts ever so slightly on him. When their eyes meet again, Shin grins.

He’s dangerously close to saying something like _I missed this_. His addled brain trips between dire words and comes up empty.

“Well,” Drifter starts, beating him to the punch. His voice is half-ragged already. “Here’s that distraction.” 

“Tried and true,” Shin breathes, and if _that’s _not an admission of guilt, Shin’s not sure what is. 

He rocks himself forward, then back, taking is as an invitation. The pulse pounding in his ears washes out the rest of the noise in his head, makes it easy to curl his toes into the bed while he fucks himself down on Drifter, over and over. He had every intention to start slow, but Drifter’s hands are rough and his breathy sounds are hot, and Shin’s warmer than he’s been in ages.

Drifter lets him work himself, lets him chase the heat all he likes. Shin surges forward to kiss him and Drifter yields in an instant, never mind that they can count the number of times they’ve kissed before now on one hand. He tastes a little like sweat, kisses open-mouthed and greedy for it like Shin’s giving him the chance to prove something, like somehow Shin’s the one who wants more, like it’s not Drifter deepening the kiss, Drifter rolling his hips up to meet him with every motion, Drifter’s heavy hand on the nape of his neck to keep him there.

Shin cups Drifter’s jaw and licks into his mouth, coaxing every raw moan out of Drifter that he can, but when he slides his hand lower to take hold of his throat, Drifter snatches his wrist away. Shin leans back, enough to look him over.

Something timorous flashes across Drifter’s face. He says, near a rasp, “Not this time.” 

Shin wonders what Drifter thinks he’s become.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask before Drifter’s other hand is on him, stroking him, and Shin can’t do much more than groan into it, head tipped back. To show him, or maybe spite him, Shin shifts Drifter’s grip on his wrist so his hand’s close enough to grab, so he can lace their fingers together. He’s sure Drifter will shake him loose.

He doesn’t. He squeezes Shin’s hand and Shin comes like it’s wrenched out of him, painting Drifter’s stomach sticky with his pleasure. His hips stutter only once before he continues moving up and down on Drifter’s length, his teeth breaking the skin on the inside of his cheek.

“Hey, hey,” Drifter says tightly, making like he might lift him up. 

Shin frees his hands and pushes Drifter down into the bed by the chest. He smears some of the come, but hardly notices as he starts moving his hips again. Between gritted teeth, he says, “Let me –” 

Drifter licks his lips and puts his hands back on Shin’s thighs, watching. “If that’s what you want,” he says, looking pleased for it. 

“I want,” Shin breathes, then stops, tries again, his lungs burning, too hot: “I wanna do this for you.” 

Drifter’s eyes widen in surprise, or panic, or something in between, and then he’s got his head turned against his own shoulder to muffle himself. Shin groans through his teeth as he feels Drifter finish, his breaths going harsh as his body tries to catch up with him when he finally stops moving.

They both sink into the comedown like rocks. Shin remembers his head hurts right around the same time he pulls himself off of Drifter, falling into the cot alongside him in the smallest space possible – between Drifter’s shoulder and the wall. His thighs are wet. He wants a shower and a drink and a nap.

But for now, he only needs this.

“How’s the head?” Drifter asks again, quieter this time.

Shin shifts his weight, casts one leg over Drifter’s to make the most of limited space.

“Better,” he says.”

It’s quiet, at least.

Shin's got two treatments for his little problem, now – Gambit and Drifter – but he's got an itch for one over the other. Gambit’s a break; Drifter's an indulgence, and despite the shaky start, they both adjust to their new routine with unexpected ease. Shin spends more time on the Derelict than anywhere else…except for the Annex, where he lounges along while Drifter doles out whatever quotas he needs to for his vendor license.

And most of the time, when he’s not leaping through invade portals, he’s in Drifter’s bed.

Shin traces Drifter's profile with his eyes. Drifter’s got his brows tugged together, concentrating on the ceiling, a hundred miles away. Shin's thrown all the blankets off the bed, nearly draped over Drifter where he lays next to him. He's warm enough that neither of them have any reason to worry about the cold.

Shin goes for a kiss to his chest, feels the way Drifter's breath shivers, then tries for his throat. Drifter’s quick to shove Shin's face away, smushing his cheek.

“Nuh-uh, gimme a break,” Drifter tells him, half-desperate. “I'm tapping out.”

Shin, unrepentant, turns his head to press his mouth against Drifter's hand. Drifter clicks his tongue and grabs him by the jaw instead. Ruefully, he adds, “You're a damn leech.”

Maybe. Maybe, but Drifter doesn’t push him back when he tucks his chin to catch Drifter’s thumb between his teeth. Though Drifter makes a small noise at Shin’s tongue pressing to the pad of his thumb, it’s not enough to completely break his focus on whatever’s got his thoughts in a vice. Shin’s not worried to the point of pressing. If it was something to do with him, Drifter would just spit it out. 

This only works between them if they pretend they trust each other. If they keep their secrets close to their chest. Shin’s not foolish enough to crack open Pandora’s box with Drifter. He’ll take what he can get.

“Day’s wasting,” Shin points out eventually, between dozing and waking.

Drifter stirs with a little _ngh _of a noise. Shin starts to climb over him, then spends a moment in his lap, hands on either side of Drifter’s head. He studies him; Drifter blinks blearily back up at Shin in return. He doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

Shin lets the concern die on his tongue. 

“Hungry?” he says instead. 

Drifter grins. “_Starvin’_.”

Shin slips out of bed, throwing on clothes. Foodwise, all they’ve really got is hours-old coffee and some leftover takeout that’s stayed good thanks to the chilly air. Shin warms a full mug in his hand and gives it to Drifter when he stumbles out of the cot behind him. 

“Match in…” Drifter starts, then stops and looks at Shin, expectant. 

“An hour.” Shin picks up the takeout box and chopsticks, plucking mouthfuls of noodles out of it. He eats only a couple bites; the rest, he hands off to Drifter. “Plenty of time.”

Drifter gives him a dubious frown around his mouthful, his coffee mug already empty. He swallows, then replies, “Not for what mess you got in mind.” 

Shin smiles to himself, pouring the rest of the coffee for himself. “Not even something quick?” 

“One somethin’ quick always turns into three somethin’ quicks.”

Shin can’t argue. He leans back, shoulders resting against the wall, and shuts his eyes while Drifter devours the rest of the takeout. Drifter says something and Shin glances over, only to see him still stuffing his face, paying him no mind.

Shin frowns, lifts his hand halfway to his ear – then stops and drops it.

As Drifter’s polishing off the last of the food, Shin closes the space. He dips forward to kiss the edge of Drifter’s jaw. Drifter’s chewing stops altogether when Shin’s lips touch him, and there’s a moment where he leans his face just a little closer to Shin, orbits just a teensy bit nearer to him. 

Then Shin steps back and Drifter slowly returns to eating.

“You goin’ somewhere?” he asks when Shin starts heading out.

“Gettin’ ready,” Shin calls over his shoulder. “I’ve got work, don’t I?” 

He cleans up, gets himself looking a little less like he’s spent the last several hours pinned between the wall and his… business partner. That’s the best word for it now, even if it misses most of the specifics and all of the history between them. Give Shin a hundred years, and he still couldn’t think of the right word for what they are, anyway.

The Invader gear goes on. He pulls most of it from his inventory with a quick flash but takes the time to snap on the vest, the gauntlets, the cloak, the boots. Something about putting each piece on, each bit of armor, is a little more killing instinct. The helmet goes on last, the hood tugged up over the top of it.

Shin feels something in one of his pockets as he’s finishing up. He reaches in, feels out the round edges with a good idea of what it is, then pulls the little thing out and finds that it’s a Gambit coin on a loose red string. He pinches the string between his fingers and watches the coin sway back and forth, spinning – it’s Gambit, it’s Fallen, Gambit, Fallen, Gambit, Hive – 

Shin snatches the coin in his palm and looks. 

The Fallen symbol stares back up at him.

He finds Drifter in the Annex, mumbling under his breath as he fiddles with some kinda scout rifle. Judging by the last minute Shin’s been watching him, he’s not getting anywhere with whatever he’s trying to mod. His hands are shaking too badly.

This time, the concern’s too quick for him to bite down on it.

“You good?” Shin asks.

Drifter nearly throws the gun off his table, whipping around to face him. His jaw’s slack, eyes wide, and Shin glances behind himself to make sure nobody worse has walked in behind him. When he looks back at Drifter, he’s worked his expression into one of stubborn unhappiness.

Shin puts both his empty hands up, palms out, placating. “Hey,” he adds. “Just me.” 

“Just you,” Drifter says, like it’s a good joke. He rubs his temples.

“Here.” Shin walks over and drops the coin into his outstretched palm. “Found this in my pocket.” 

Drifter examines it (still Fallen on one side, Gambit on the other, Shin notes with relief) then says, dryly, “Now I wonder where this came from?” 

Shin tips his head to telegraph his amusement, then, before he can stop himself, he leans forward all the way to rest the front of his helmet on Drifter’s shoulder. He can feel Drifter’s hands floating uselessly on either side of him, one clenched around that coin, one open like begging help. Shin stands there, head bowed against him, tension fading out of his shoulders, until Drifter finally, _finally _slides an arm beneath his cloak to invite him to stay.

“Match is starting soon,” Drifter mutters.

Shin swallows around a knot in his throat. “Yeah,” he says softly.

“...You ready?”

Shin nods. He doesn’t move back.

Drifter exhales a long, weighted sigh, knocking his head into Shin’s helmet once. “Been thinkin’,” he starts. 

Shin waits.

“This world’s goin’ to shit,” Drifter says, slow, but as he talks it starts coming out in a rush, ruthless in cynicism and endless in breath. “Think maybe the whole system’s on its way to goin’ kaput. I mean, everybody wants a piece of whatever _bastion _of hope we got goin’ on here, right? Every mean baddie between here and the unknown wants our stuff. The Traveler. _Pff_. Why don’t we just give it to ‘em? Let ‘em all leave us well alone so they can fight over the scraps.” 

Shin turns his head closer to Drifter’s neck, listening quietly. He thinks Drifter would be pacing if not for the way Shin’s leaned all against him, but Drifter hasn’t pushed him off, and so he stays.

“There’s a lotta terrible things out there, Shin,” Drifter insists. He gestures fruitlessly, aimlessly, madly with his free hand. “We already had the damn _Taken King _roll through! Lucky our savior happened to be feelin’ like sparin’ us that day to hunt him down, right? We should all be dead. We should all be dead a thousand times over.” 

He’s not wrong, Shin thinks. He’s not wrong.

Drifter angles his head to speak against Shin’s hood, huffing. “And don’t you say nothin’ about any hope or Light or optimism. You know that’s bullshit. You _know_. You’re a fucking liar’s what you are.”

Shin snorts and admits, “I know.” 

Drifter’s arm tightens around him. “I just –”

He goes quiet, his mouth shutting with a click of teeth. Shin nuzzles closer at his neck, feels Drifter press his cheek to his helmet.

They stand, silent, for longer than either of them want to know. 

“I feel like…somethin’s coming,” Drifter finally mumbles. “Somethin’s comin’. I don’t wanna be here for it.” 

Shin leans back. They’re still close, but this way he can look Drifter in the face, even if Drifter can’t do the same with him.

“Where do you wanna be?” Shin asks, studying every wrinkle to his brow, every line of his frown.

Drifter licks his dry lips. “Hell if I know. Anywhere but here. Anything’s better than getting front row seats to a reckoning. Feels like we’ve run outta salvations.” 

Shin stays quiet. His Ghost appears, a running clock projected in the air in front of it. He looks at Drifter again. They’re out of time.

Drifter moves first. He flicks the coin Shin gave him into the Cabal helm with the rest, then points at him, sticks his finger right into Shin's chest. “Get your head on right,” he tells him, wavering a little.

Shin catches his hand in his own. 

He still hears the whispers sometimes. Still hears them when it’s too silent, or the pounding of his heart’s not distracting him. He still hears them, and what they bring is ominous news. A world’s end, a life’s beginning. They bring a foreboding, a pressure that stays over Shin like a storm about to break. Relief never comes. He’s not sure it ever will.

He grips Drifter’s fingers tightly and says, “I feel it too.” 

Drifter’s shoulders drop from their tense hold and his eyes widen again, the same old fear in them. Shin holds onto him until he can’t anymore, until the knowing gets to him too badly, and he lets go. 

“We’ve got a game,” Shin says tightly.

The last thing Shin sees before he transmats is Drifter rubbing beneath his ears, checking his fingers for red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and massive thank you to Agent for betaing this in one fell swoop.


	2. TRANSCRIPT ATTACHED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want to know?” 
> 
> Shin’s tucked into a comfortable sit on Drifter’s cot, a tablet propped against his knee. He glances sideways at his Ghost. “Know what?” 
> 
> “The conversation we had while you were out.” 
> 
> Shin goes, “Ah,” and thinks on that. “Why not.” He pulls up the file his Ghost blips over to him, then settles in.

TYPE: Transcript.   
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//   
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[u.1:0.1] You knocked him out.   
[u.2:0.1] Wh—where the hell…of course I did. You see his eyes? Some kinda nightmare in ‘em –    
[u.1:0.2] Thank you.   
[u.2:0.2] …What? <STATIC> …didn’t do it as a favor. You let him get this way?   
[u.1:0.3] It’s a long story.   
<UNINTELLIGIBLE>   
[u.1:0.4] Your hands...are you alright?   
[u.2:0.3] Just fine. I’m just fine.   
[u.2:0.4] Can’t say the same for him. What’s the deal? What’d you do to him?   
[u.1:0.5] Me? Nothing.   
[u.2:0.5] Sure.   
[u.1:0.6] I told you already. It’s a long story.   
[u.2:0.6] So tell me while I drag his body somewhere I won’t step on it.   
[u.1:0.7] It’d be better if you heard it from him.   
[u.2:0.7] Ha! That’s rich.   
[u.2:0.8] Yeah. Yeah, I bet it would be.   
<UNINTELLIGIBLE>   
[u.2:0.9] …You’re floatin’ mighty close, there.    
[u.1:0.8] I’m scanning him.   
[u.2:1.0] Could’ve fooled me. Sure you weren’t scoping me out?   
[u.1:0.9] Fine. I was scanning both of you.    
[u.2:1.1] And what’s the verdict?   
[u.1:1.0] He’ll be fine.    
[u.2:1.2] And what about li’l ol’ me?    
[u.1:1.1] What do you think?   
[u.2:1.3] Oh, shit! The bug’s got sass.   
[u.1:1.2] Careful. Watch his head —   
<UNINTELLIGIBLE>   
[u.2:1.4] Whoops. Wanna scan him again?    
[u.1:1.3] He’s had worse.    
[u.2:1.5] Yeah. Looks like.    
[u.2:1.6] What’s, uh…    
[u.1:1.4] ...What’s what?    
[u.2:1.7] The...ah, fuck. The blood. Where’s the blood coming from?   
[u.2:1.8] Huh. Ears. Right. ‘Course it is.    
[u.1:1.5] Your hands are shaking again.   
[u.2:1.9] Ha. Yeah, it’s been one of those days.   
<STATIC>   
[u.2:2.0] Go on. Get outta here.    
[u.1:1.6]  Thank you again.  
[u.2:2.1] Out. 

//END TRANSCRIPT.../ 


End file.
